


heaven talks (but not to me)

by belikebumblebee



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 11:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11897229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belikebumblebee/pseuds/belikebumblebee
Summary: Everything happens so fast, and Waverly is doing her best to keep up. All she needs is to just get everything right.





	heaven talks (but not to me)

One moment, they’re standing in a barn, and Nicole feels definite and alive beneath Waverly’s fingers, even with her hair still smelling like sweat and smoke. (Waverly wants to taste her heartbeat until she can really believe it, but) –

 

– The next, the Jeep is hurtling cross-country and Waverly is trying desperately to make sense of what Jeremy is yelling into his phone. In the rearview mirror, she catches Nicole’s concerned look from where she’s changing into her uniform. –

 

– Waverly isn’t sure how long adrenaline surges can last. She’s pretty damn sure the answer isn’t _several days_ , she thinks as the butt of her shotgun painfully kicks back into her shoulder again and again. –

 

– “My angel,” Bobo whispers, and Nicole makes a sound like a growl, stepping forward, but Waverly pulls her aside. “Listen, Robert,” she hisses, headache pounding between her ears as she stabs his chest with her index finger, “I have had one _hell_ of a week. You vowed never to hurt me? Well, guess what, you broke that vow right along with the third seal, and if you know what’s good for you, you’re going to help us break the curse, too, or I will _personally drag your sorry ass back to hell._ ” –

 

– Clootie rises. His wives lie dead at his feet, ecstatic laughter still eerily plastered all over their faces, his voice is high, so high it seems to gather the clouds above him. Wynonna holds up the plate like a shield, and he is raging, raging at the sight of it –

 

– Wynonna shoots. Wynonna misses. Clootie flees, fast as a balloon that someone let the air out of, and there is no time to breathe, because Wynonna _curses_ –

 

– “I can’t do this. I can’t do this, I want out, I can’t do this. I’m so tired, Wave, please don’t make me do this…” Beneath the steady reassurances she mutters into Wynonna’s damp hair, Waverly figures that this must be pretty close to hell; hearing her sister beg and suffer and not being able to do a damn thing about it. –

 

– Everyone jumps out of their seats when Waverly pushes the door open, Jeremy with a bandage over his nose (Wynonna took a swing at him on the way to the hospital because he got excited about _the miracle of life_ ). “Everyone is fine,” she announces, “they’re both fine.” –

 

– One thing piles onto another, like grains of sand in an hour glass. Time passes and Waverly feels further away from reality with every minute. Every once in a while, a moment flashes and burns into her memory, the rest blurs together in a multi-colored jumble of happenings. Xavier, holding a sleeping Wynonna’s hand. Rosita, smiling at Doc cradling the baby in his arms. Someone’s hand is at the small of her back. Nicole is asking something.

There’s a car.

They’re at the homestead.

 _Good thing we’re here, Wynonna needs clothes_ , Waverly says, or maybe she doesn’t.

Rain. Warm rain? No, the shower. When did she get undressed?

“No,” Nicole says, gentle but stern, and Waverly has already forgotten what they’re talking about. It’s really cold. Suddenly, a heavy weight. Someone needs to take off her hat, it feels way too small, it’s hurting her.

“Baby,” a soft voice says and does something magical with her head, “you haven’t slept in days. I’ll take care of everything. Please just sleep. I’m here. I’ll take care of everything.”

 

***

 

“I could always just name her ‘Kiddo’, because let’s face it, that’s what I’m going to call her most of the time.”

Wynonna is propped up against the pillow of her hospital bed, and in her lap lies the tiny new addition to the Earp family: six pounds and not quite twenty inches of a pink, still kind of crumpled up person.

“I mean, sure,” Nicole shrugs, “but she might kill you when she’s a teenager.”

“Fair point.” Wynonna plays with her daughter’s kicking feet, and Nicole marvels at how relaxed she seems. “Alice sounds better, anyway.”

“You don’t want to continue the W-tradition?”

Wynonna doesn’t look up, just catches the little hand stretching up towards her and watches as tiny fingers wrap around her thumb. A fond smirk spreads on her face, but it’s a little tired. “I’m kinda hoping that this one can start fresh. No traditions.”

 _No curse_ , she doesn’t say, but Nicole gets it. In her mind she sees Clootie, looking back at them, fiery eyes glowing like—

“Hey, Haught.” Wynonna is making little Alice wave the hand that is still firmly attached to her own. “Where is my sister?”

After Nicole put her to bed, Waverly slept for fourteen hours, and when she woke up, she looked—well, she looked amazing, because through some unfair twist of fate, Waverly always looks amazing. But it was also obvious that she was still exhausted, and she held herself very stiffly around her bruises. Nicole offered to drive her to the hospital, but Waverly had other ideas.

“Online-shopping,” Nicole sighs, and leans forward to bury her face in her hands. Rubbing over her eyes, she pulls them away again. “She sent me to bring you the bag.”

Wynonna realizes: “She’s avoiding us.”

“No,” Nicole hurries to assure her, “she’s just—preparing for when you both come home. The homestead isn’t exactly perfectly baby-proof, is it?”

Swallowing visibly, Wynonna frowns and nods. “Yeah— yeah.” Alice seems to sense the shift in her mood and starts fussing; Wynonna scoops her up with both hands and sends Nicole a smile as fake as the plastic flowers on the window sill. “Tell her I said hi, will you?”

Nicole catches the hint.

She gets up to leave, but hesitates in the doorway. “Wynonna.”

“Yep.”

“I’ll talk to Waverly. But in the meantime, if there’s anything you need…”

She trails off, and waits until Wynonna returns her gaze. They look at each other for a moment, until Wynonna clears her throat. “Yeah, okay.” She makes a _shoo_ motion, and Nicole goes.

 

*

 

She finds Waverly where she left her hours ago: at her desk, eyes glued to the monitor of her computer. The words _what to buy when baby check list_ are still visible in the search bar of her browser, and she has no less than eleven tabs and four windows open.

“Hi, baby.” Nicole bends down to kiss her, and Waverly holds out her cheek without looking away from the screen.

“Hey,” she answers, “how’s Wynonna?”

With a sigh, Nicole sinks down on the floor and leans back against the doorframe. “She’s okay.” Carefully, she adds: “And so is the baby.”

But either Waverly doesn’t pick up on her tone, or she chooses to ignore it. “Good, good. Did you get the measurements? I need to know which size of baby clothes I need to buy.”

“Yes, I texted them to you earlier.”

Waverly grabs for her phone and curses. “Shit, I could have ordered hours ago.” She begins to type away at her keyboard furiously.

Her hair, put up in a high ponytail, has come loose at her temples like she’s been rubbing them, and Nicole knows that staring at a screen all day has probably not improved her headache.

“Sorry,” Waverly mumbles distractedly, “I’ll be busy here for another while. I don’t mean to keep you.”

Nicole isn’t sure why she keeps getting asked to leave today, but she decides that Waverly is going to have to be more direct if she really wants her to go.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. Her joints crack when she gets up. “I’ll make us some dinner.”

 

*

 

Over pasta with tomato sauce, Nicole tries: “Hey, you want to swing by the hospital tomorrow?”

“Can’t,” Waverly replies, tapping things on her phone that Nicole can’t see. “I ordered about fifteen things with amazon prime that should arrive tomorrow, and I’ll have to call IKEA about their delivery service.” She puts her phone down and takes a bite of her food before smacking her own forehead. “Oh, shit, diapers. I forgot about the diapers.” She picks up her phone again.

“Waverly.”

Waverly looks up and fixes Nicole with a thoughtful stare. “The list says to buy two to three boxes, but babies grow pretty quickly, don’t they? What do we do with leftover diapers when the baby needs a new size? Well, I guess we could donate them. You’re right, I shouldn’t overthink this. Trust the research, Waverly!”

She laughs, her smile fading when she bends over her phone again. Her right hand stabs blindly at her food to shove it into her mouth.

Nicole’s chest tightens at the sight, and she wishes she could shield Waverly from time itself for a little while, make space, a small alcove for them both to rest in. Instead, she reaches out to cover Waverly’s hand with her own.

“Anything I can do to help?”

Waverly looks up at her with an expression that somehow reminds Nicole of the guilt that is still resting deep within her chest. For a moment, she hopes that Waverly will stop, that they can go to bed and _sleep_ and face all of this together in the morning. But the moment passes, and Waverly gives her the uneasy smile that she must know Nicole can see right through.

“Thanks, you’re sweet. You’ve already done so much – making me dinner, bringing Wynonna her bag…”

“It was nothing,” Nicole assures her. “Anything you need, Wave.”

“Okay,” Waverly whispers, and swallows just like her sister did earlier, and then she pulls her hand out from under Nicole’s to go put her plate in the sink.

 

*

 

Nicole wakes to cool sheets, the smell of stale coffee, and Waverly’s voice downstairs, rough and disapproving.

She’s hanging up the phone by the time Nicole enters the kitchen, sleep still clinging to her like a wet shirt.

“IKEA won’t deliver this far out,” Waverly says, digging her fingertips into her scalp. “And I can’t _leave_ today because I have to sign off on those deliveries.”

“Good morning,” Nicole mumbles in response, and she would give a piece of her soul away if she could just lean forward and kiss Waverly’s neck. But Waverly is stressed, and running on more coffee than sleep, and can barely stand still enough for Nicole to touch her at all. “I can go to IKEA. Just tell me what to get, and I’ll get it.”

Distractedly, Waverly reaches out with one hand to rub her shoulder, and Nicole can’t help but move into her at the contact, loop her arms around Waverly’s waist. For a moment, Waverly relaxes into the hug, burying her face in that spot beneath Nicole’s collar bone.

“No,” she murmurs, pulling back, “you’ve done so much. I’ll call Xavier, maybe he can…”

“He’s holding down the fort at the office,” Nicole reminds her. “And I’m still on sick leave. I’ll go, Waverly.”

She drops a kiss on her forehead and moves to the stairs to get dressed.

“Thank you, Nicole,” Waverly says from behind her, and her voice sounds as strange as she feels. “Do you think you could—“

Nicole stops, turning back. “Could what?”

“Maybe, on your way, you could pass by the hospital, see how they’re doing?”

Waverly stands there, strapped into boots and jeans and a tight blouse, perfectly put together as always, coiled up as tight as a spring.

“Sure, Waverly,” Nicole sighs. “Whatever you want.”

 

*

 

IKEA warehouses remind Nicole of airports: designed to look similar regardless of location, high ceilings, filled with stressed-out, busy people. Nicole navigates her way through them and the rows and rows of towering shelves. Across the room, something shatters. A kid starts howling.

She crosses items off her list of product numbers and stacks brown paper boxes on top of each other until she can barely get the cart to turn corners. Waiting in line, Nicole realizes she hasn’t made sure that the bar codes on the boxes are all facing the same direction, and has to re-organize her cart while the middle-aged lady behind her keeps sighing dramatically, but eventually, she makes it back to the car.

At the hospital, she picks up a small bouquet at the little kiosk downstairs, sunflowers and marguerites. Nicole knows that its scent comes more from perfume than the actual flowers, but she doesn’t care. Maybe it’ll mask the smell of hospital, disinfectant and instant mashed potatoes. She _hates_ that smell.

“Come in,” Wynonna’s voice calls when Nicole knocks on the open door, but when Nicole rounds the corner, she can see her face fall a little bit. “Hi, Nicole.”

Rosita is standing by the baby bed and carefully pulls the string of a stuffed animal, which begins jingling _Itsy Bitsy Spider_. Jeremy, from his spot in a visitor’s chair, hums along.

“Hey guys,” Nicole says, and places the flowers on Wynonna’s bedside table. “The plastic geranium by the window was depressing me, so I brought this. How’re you doing?”

Groaning, Wynonna sits up. “ _I_ would like nothing more than to go home, but little _Al_ over there insists that now is a good time for a mild case of jaundice. It’s probably going to go away on its own, but we’ll have to stay a few days more for observation.”

Rosita makes space for Nicole to peek into the little bed, and sure enough, little Alice’s skin now has a peculiar yellow tinge to it. “What’re you doing, little one?” Nicole asks her quietly, reaching out to run her index finger down the short span of Alice’s wrinkly foot. “You shouldn’t smoke so much, it’s known to cause some discoloration of your fingernails.”

Rosita pulls up one shoulder. “That what I told her, but she says it’s an addiction.”

“Actually, that’s different,” Jeremy chimes in. “Smoking turns your fingernails yellow because the tar collects on your hands, but jaundice—“

“We know, Jer,” Wynonna interrupts him with a snort and an eye roll. After a beat, she looks at Nicole, but doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Waverly still not coming?”

She shakes her head. “Apparently there’s a whole truckload of baby clothing coming today. But she says hi.”

“Tell her hi back,” Wynonna says breezily, but Nicole doesn’t miss the way she starts to fidget with her necklace.

“Will do.” She looks down at Alice, who makes an odd baby noise and stretches her alien little body.

 

*

****

**_Nicole Haught. 9.06 am._ ** _sorry I had to leave for work while you were still on the phone._

****

**_Nicole Haught. 10.23 am._ ** _how are things on your end?_

****

**_Nicole Haught. 12.00 am._ ** _dolls says he’s going to the hospital in an hour and he wants to know if he should pick you up?_

****

**_Nicole Haught. 1.05 pm._ ** _told him you’re still busy._

**_Nicole Haught. 2.14 pm._ ** _sorry for the text spam. just wanted to remind you that there’s leftovers in the fridge._

**_Nicole Haught. 4.00 pm._ ** _finishing up early soon & then i’m on my way over. unless you don’t want me to?_

**_Nicole Haught. 4.19 pm._ ** _i’m getting kinda worried here. i’ll be there soon_

*

 

Upon opening the door, Nicole is met with washhouse air, warm and damp. A clothesline crisscrosses through the living room; it’s so long that Nicole can’t quite make out where it starts and where it ends. Tiny onesies, shirts, socks, hats, sheets, pillow cases, and jackets hang between towels and wash cloths. Right in front of Nicole hangs a dark green hooded towel with a happy little dog printed on it, and something about it makes her heart clench.

“Wave?,” she calls.

In the corner is a rocking chair that wasn’t there when she left.

“Over here,” Waverly’s voice comes back, sounding weirdly disembodied.

The master bedroom is covered with ripped paper, plastic coverings, boards, racks, screws, tools, and other items that should eventually fit together to make up a crib, or a dresser, or possibly both.

Amidst the chaos sits Waverly, cross-legged, with the assembly instructions in her lap and her head in her hands.

“Hey,” Nicole says carefully, testing the waters. When Waverly looks up, she finds the waters are boiling.

“This _says_ to screw these parts together. But it’s _wrong_. It’s fucking _wrong_ , Nicole. Because this stupid piece of wood—“, Waverly grabs for one of the pieces and holds it so tight her fingernails go white _,_ “does not _have_ any of the holes this manual _says_ it should have. Where the fuck am I putting the screw, can you tell me that? No, you can’t, because. This manual. Is wrong.”

With a clang, she lets the board drop to the floor, and the manual flops down anticlimactically when Waverly throws it to Nicole’s feet.

“Okay.” Nicole crouches down and picks up the instructions. “Let’s see. Maybe there’s a mistake with the parts… Hey, I brought some take-out, by the way. Have you eaten yet? There might even be some sweet and sour soup in there, and I saw some peanut butter in the cupboard in case you want to—”

“Please don’t,” Waverly whispers.

The atmosphere shifts so fast Nicole feels like she walked into a wall of water. “Don’t… what?”

“Don’t be so _nice_ to me.” Waverly’s face is as still as a lake, her eyes pressed shut. “I can’t—when I see you, all I want to do is—is _hug_ you, and I can’t— you shouldn’t even be here.”

And there it is. Shapeless and difficult like a heavy fog, but whatever it is that’s _weighing_ so much on Waverly, driving her forward even when she’s too exhausted to figure out IKEA instructions, it’s out.

“Why not?” Nicole wants to know, keeping her voice even and calm although she can feel her heartbeat in her tongue.

“Just—trust me,” Waverly says, and then, like she’s made an ironic joke, she lets out an awful, awful bark of a laugh. Maybe it startles her, too, because she brings up both her hands to her mouth like she can take it back in.

“Listen to me, Waverly Earp.” Nicole holds Waverly’s gaze, steady as she can. “I am going to be as nice to you as I want.” She folds up the manual and sets it aside, then begins clearing a path through the piece of disassembled furniture. “I am going to be here for you,” – the runner of a drawer – “I am going to help you in whatever way I can,” – the back of the crib – “and you can hug me whenever you want.” She brushes some wooden pins out of the way. “And you know why?”

“I cheated on you,” Waverly rasps, just before Nicole can tilt up her chin.

Nicole’s hand sinks down.

“The night before I came to see you. I was at the spa and I was so—so _angry_. Everything was messed up, and Rosita—I shouldn’t have kissed her, but I did. It felt all wrong, and I wish I could take it back, but I _can’t_ —“

She falls apart, keeps talking, and Nicole says nothing.

Eventually, Waverly scrambles to her feet and flees, her sobs bouncing off the walls as she goes, while Nicole remains frozen in place.

 

*

 

South of Lake Simcoe in Ontario is a small town called Georgina. It is ordinary in every way, although Mrs. Elaine Haught would disagree and tell everyone who doesn’t know it yet that she once had a very funny young boy named James Carrey in her elementary school class.

Nicole grew up there, and when she was fifteen, she joined the swim team of the Sutton District High School. By the time she was seventeen, she made captain. There was talk of a scholarship. Her parents, immensely proud, hung GO SUTTON PIRATES banners from the upper floor of their house for every competition, and sometimes, there were surprise eyepatch-shaped cookies in Nicole’s lunch boxes.

Memories of Nicole’s teenage years are always engulfed in the lingering smell of chlorine; and by now, she can almost think of it again without feeling sick.

Here, the air smells like wet meadows and snow and a little bit like horse manure. It feels clean. It reminds her that she is no longer seventeen. From the top of the hills behind the homestead, the fields seem to go on forever, stretching out for miles and miles before her. There’s a cluster of houses and streets far in the distance, a whole town compressed to a gray sliver in a sea of green and brown. The horizon seems so much further away in Alberta.

There was a girl on her team.

Well, it was an all-girl team, so there were lots of girls, but one in particular. They used to make jokes about taking a boat out to Snake Island and swim around it, three and a half miles in the cold water of the lake, and the winner would get a wish. “Whatever she wants,” were the exact words, spoken with a smirk and a wink. When you’re seventeen, what are three and a half miles for a promise like that from a girl you like?

Well. The answer was: three and a half miles were enough to earn her a kiss, faces pressed together still wet and cold, bodies shaking, hearts racing. Three and a half miles were also enough to throw out her shoulder, putting her on the bench for the rest of the season.

Her parents asked questions. Nicole told the truth. The scouts came and went without seeing her. “And for what?”, her dad had yelled, over and over and over.  “For what?”

Nicole takes a deep breath. The sun is going down soon, and the fence she’s sitting on is digging into her butt, but her fingers are warm and dry in the pockets of her coat. It’s a nice feeling. A horse whinnies nearby.

She waited and waited for her parents to get over it. She sat fully clothed by the side of the pool and cheered on her teammates, the smell of chlorine almost unbearable in the hot, humid air. She spent her prom night alone, and she went off to college thinking that if she just did _well_ enough, her parents would forgive her for not getting the scholarship.

Eventually, she realized that it wasn’t about the scholarship at all. And that it wasn’t her who needed to be forgiven.

Down at the homestead, the backdoor opens, and Waverly steps out, wrapped in her green jacket. Nicole watches as she trudges up the hill, snow gathering on the pompoms of her boots.

She comes to a halt a few feet away, pale and with red-rimmed eyes.

“I didn’t say that I’m sorry earlier,” Waverly starts. “But you deserve to know that I am. Nicole, I am so, _so_ sorry.” Her fingers curl into a fist for a moment, thumb nail digging into her index finger. “It was rash and stupid and I’m not saying this to get you to forgive me, but I need to say it. And I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier. Everything just kept _happening_ , and I—“

“I forgive you.”

Waverly’s face relaxes into open bewilderment.

 Nicole holds out her hand for her, but Waverly remains where she is. “Nicole, I _cheated_ on you. I kissed her knowing full well what I was doing.”

With a sigh, Nicole slides off her fence to cross the distance between them. She tangles their hands together, and her heart gives a tug like it wants to break when Waverly’s eyelids flutter at the contact, her face full of hope and fear and confusion. 

“Tell me if I’m getting this wrong,” Nicole begins quietly. “But I feel like… You were possessed by a demon. Your sister got pregnant. Then you found out that your lineage was not exactly what you thought it was, and your girlfriend lied to you. I understand the need to take back some control after all of that.”

“That does not make it okay.”

“No.” Nicole shrugs. “But when I got hurt, you were there for me, and you risked everything… for me. I’ve been through some things, Waverly. I know what I can and can’t forgive.”

For a long moment, Waverly just looks her in the face, searching, scrutinizing, inquiring.

Nicole stands still for her, as she always has. And when Waverly finally gives in and dives forward, she catches her.

 

***

 

Visiting hours start at nine, and Waverly arrives at quarter past. Carts with empty trays stand in the hallways; she passes a room that is practically overflowing with blue balloons.

It takes her four tries, but eventually, Waverly raises her fist and raps her knuckles against the door of her sister’s room.

“Come on in,” Wynonna calls from inside, “unless you’re here to make me walk literally anywhere, in which case don’t come in, I’m stark naked and also still asleep, so just come back…” She trails off when Waverly steps into her field of vision. “…later.”

According to Web MD, sleep deprivation is linked to a disconnect in the part of the brain responsible for keeping emotions under control, which at least explains why she’s been so incredibly emotional, but Waverly swore to herself that she would mind-over-matter through this or die trying.

“Hey,” she says, and gives a little smile and wave.

Wynonna doesn’t smile back, just regards her with an expression that Waverly can’t quite read.

“I hear you’re doing all my nesting for me,” she says, a little guardedly.

“Can’t have the little one sleep on the couch,” Waverly jokes, “she doesn’t need to pick up your bad habits _that_ fast.”

She laughs, uncomfortable under Wynonna’s quiet gaze, and winces a little at how forced it sounds. When the sound fades away, she swallows. It feels like talking past a coconut in her throat, but she manages to ask: “Can I meet my niece?”

Her voice sounds small even to her own ears, but the corners of Wynonna’s mouth finally turn up a little. She pats the mattress next to her, and Waverly flashes back to being seven and climbing into her sister’s bed at the institution while Gus and Curtis were talking to people in white coats and serious faces. Discarding her bag and her jacket on a nearby chair, she joins her.

She watches as Wynonna reaches out and lifts her daughter from her bed beneath a blue lamp, hands firm but careful. Gently, she sets her down in Waverly’s arms.

She’s a newborn: a tuft of fine dark hair, weirdly big pores, surprisingly sharp fingernails. Waverly can see her pulse in the hole where the roof of her skull hasn’t merged yet. She looks too strange, too featureless to be particularly cute yet, and she’s small enough for her feet to rest in the crook of Waverly’s elbow while her head is cradled in her hand. But even though she’s impossibly light considering that she’s an entire human of her own, the weight of her against Waverly’s palm feels… grounding.

The craze of the past days melts from Waverly’s shoulders like ice: slowly, but steadily. All the running around, building furniture, folding laundry, doing research, making lists, and suddenly it feels like all this tiny person really wants her to do is let her sleep.

“Hi,” Waverly finally tells her. “I’m Waverly.” 

She makes sure to use her normal voice; she doesn’t think it’s appropriate to sound like a Barbie commercial when she’s introducing herself. The baby doesn’t appear to care much either way, but it’s a matter of principle.

Waverly clears her throat. “You know, it sucks that this is pretty much the first thing I’m saying to you, but I figure that we should get this out of the way. I kind of owe you an apology. There's a... pretty dangerous man out there. A real shithead, if I'm honest… There's a good chance he's going to try to hurt you and it's— well, it's my fault that he's free. I was supposed to trust your momma, and it's not that I didn't so much as... I got really scared, and I forgot how for a while, you know?”

She uses her free hand to wipe at her face and tries to smile at her niece, apologetic.

“Not my finest hour as an aunt, and you're not even a week old yet.”

Next to her, Wynonna sighs. “Waverly.” She pulls her close, roughly presses a kiss into her hair. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”

Waverly falls back against her sister’s shoulder, resting the infant against her drawn up thighs, and Wynonna puts an arm around her shoulders. For a while, the three stay huddled together like that, and if Waverly fails to keep her promise to herself, well. Nobody has to know about it.

“You do know her name, though, right?” Wynonna eventually asks.

Waverly snivels and shakes her head. “No. Nicole said if I wanted to know her name I’d have to, quote unquote, swing my butt here and meet her myself.”

“Bossy. But I like it. Waverly, meet Alice Augusta Earp.”

With a snort, Waverly looks up to raise her eyebrows at her sister. “You only did that so Gus won’t yell at you when she comes back from Hawaii and there’s a baby she didn’t hear about.”

“Maybe,” Wynonna admits, “but it’s also because if I do half as good a job with this one as she did with you, I’ll be happy.”

Waverly leans against her shoulder, letting Alice hold on to her fingers. They’ll hold onto anything when they’re that small, and fast enough to carry their own weight.

The emptiness in Waverly’s chest shrinks. She breathes.

“Hey, Wynonna?”

“Mhm.”

“Do you mind if I tell Nicole that she can come in now, because she’s kind of waiting right outsi—“

“Oh my god, Wave. Go get her.”


End file.
